The Yankee White
by Electromotive Force
Summary: Wars have many fronts, just as every battle within. How then does UNSC admiralty stay apprised of every front in a galaxy-wide war? They create an all-knowing, all-capable ghost cell that operates behind enemy lines. The Yankee White. God help them all.
1. From the Depths of the Haze

**The Yankee White**

**by**

**Electromotive Force**

_**One - From the Depths of the Haze**_

The scene of a late night bar on Reach was usually the same. Always the same.

Looking around, one could see soldiers, sailors, and civilians alike. Drinking, laughing, crying. Uniting with old friends, sharing the war stories...or the sob stories.

The same faces every night. Maybe not the same _exact _faces every night, but same story. The soldier back from tour on some far-off colony, doing what he does best, fighting. Or the sad man at the bar with a teer in his beer for whatever reason. Maybe they lost their girl from so much time away. Maybe they lost a friend in combat. The liquor flowed freely, and rightly so. Shot glasses and beer mugs clanged together in celebration like clockwork, just barely audible over the ambient buzz of charged conversation. It sounded much like a battlefield, but without the gunfire and explosion. A sea of confusion.

This spot was a top retreat for anyone in the UNSC. From far and wide, people would come from all corners of the galaxy to planet Reach to either regroup, rearm, or relax. The Reach Military Complex was the mightiest stronghold the United Nations Space Command had in its posession; people could bask in the safety it offered. Practically on the solar system's doorstep, it was also Earth's last bastion of defense against the seemingly unstoppable Covenant.

You might run into a familiar face here if you waited long enough, or just looked hard enough. An old CO, a contractor you worked a job with here or there, maybe even an old friend from Basic.

But John Midas had seen all he wanted to see. He slowly rose out of his bar stool, reached in his pocket and threw a customary tip on the bar. Nothing too generous. He reached for his glass one last time and threw it bottoms-up, wincing as he pounded it down. It would be his last drink for a while. Not that it bothered him, though. He could get through life just fine without the occasional drink. But he knew he had priorities in the near future. Obligations.

He strolled to the bathroom, past dartboards, pool tables, broken bottles and smoked buts on the floor, shufflepuck stands. Past drunken fools.

He opened the door to the bathroom and bent down to the sink and turned on the coldest water it would allow. He cupped his hands, scooping in a facefull and splahed himself. He washed away the heavy smoke that clogged his pores and smothered his soul. He then reached for a towel. He wiped his face dry, looked up and caught his own gaze in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, he was happy at what he saw. Everything clicked and he was in control. As if to distinguish himself from the rest of the crowd that night, he saw what he had chosen to wear: not a uniform, but civilian clothes. Jeans, T-shirt, and a brown suede jacket, matching boots. To him he was just John. Plain old John. On shore leave.

The Common Access Card he always carried identified him as someone different, though. Printed on the polyethylene-mylar card was the text: _John E. Midas, LtCol_.

He smiled at the thought of the identification he carried in his pocket, for he didn't fully earn the rank he possessed. He was "step-promoted" to the rank, normally attained in just over fifteen years for the average officer. He got it in merely ten. Classified knowledge, of course.

With his confidence steadily growing he left the men's room and proceeded back into the bar scene, only to be on his way out. But too many people were standing in his way, like he flashed back to high school days. Mosh pits. Stuffy air. Festering sweat and pent-up agression. Maybe a few pools of blood here and there.

They all crawled the sober-less expanse like dazed zombies. Stupid, clumsy, and weak. And though John despised them all, he would ultimately become responsible for each of their lives. _Every_ human life in the galaxy.

With nowhere to go at the moment, he looked around. At the far end of the oak bar sat a woman with a steady eye on him, gleaming in the smoky haze of the room. She looked to be in her mid 40s. What the hell was she doing here? An officer's wife? No...she couldn't be. She was either civilian contractor or enlisted herself, which made her bad news to John. He never liked comingling with military women. It was always bad news. Too much baggage, too much interference, too much drama. It just plain-never worked. He promised himself long ago that he'd _never _get involved with a military girl again. Plus, this particular one was drunk and sadness made her ugly. She was trying to reel him in with gestures, obviosuly. Nothing too overt. Maybe the wink of an eye, or the perk of the lip, straightening of the posture. She was desparate. John felt only the slightest bit of pity for her. Maybe in his younger days he would've pitied her so much that he just might've given her what she wanted. Might even have ended up inebbriated and regretfull himself.

Those days were long gone.

He looked away from her--not knowing, or caring, if she still watched him.

He caught the television hanging high over ice-cradled bottles of vodka and tequila. Some hollywood channel from Earth was on display. A red carpet scene with mobs of adoring fans, cameras and Papparazzi, and the stars themselves center-aisle. What was the point? Were any of those people actually having fun? Doing something worthwhile or productive?

A path opened up for John and stole his attention off the tube, and he hastily acted upon it. Accomplishing only three steps, a drunken couple smashed into him from the side. Maybe they were steady, maybe they just hooked up for a one-night stand. Who knew? All John knew was that they were in his way, and they laughed as they tried to recover from the impact. He attempted to walk around but that was soon proven nil. The place was literally packed wall-to-wall. He had to slither if he was going to make it out of here. With no hope and only more waiting, he could only pass time by taking in the atmosphere before his next chance.

Just then he caught something in his peripherals. A column of white.

A lone man shot up from the table he was seated at, the only white uniform in the whole place. Naval service dress uniform. Pinned on the epaulettes were twin eagles.

A captain. Didn't a captain have better things to do than spend his time at a place like this? A family? Perhaps a set of more classy friends to pass time with?

But soon, John discerened the man wasn't here with friends. He was here alone. And something piqued John's adrenaline about this particular captain. The man somehow managed to skirt all the passerbys, the drunken idiots that swarmed the building. As if the captain was a snake and slithered amongst his kin. The captain was face to face with John, looking him directly in the eyes. He looked awfully familiar...but...it couldn't be...

"It's good to see you again, John."

John couldn't believe it. But he kept his composure, forced his cool and replied, "Hello, James."

The man looked him up and down, seemingly amused at what he saw. "Why don't we step outside and catch up on old times, eh? Get away from this ruckus."

John thought about that. Thought about it hard even though it only took him a nanosecond to replay all the memories he had of James. They didn't amount to much, at least not in John's book. Then again, John had changed somewhat dramatically in a relatively short time. Regardless though, what harm would it do to shoot the breeze with Ackerson before he got underway with his mission?

Just a quick hello and he was gone.


	2. Dark Alley Dialogue

_**Two - Dark Alley Dialogue**_

Ackerson led the way out the bar, his white service dress shining like a signal flare through the smoky interior. He paved the way for John, just like the snake he was earlier. The snake he always was.

John couldn't harp too much, though. He was just as bad long ago.

A narrow corridor stemmed off the main square of the establishment. A dimly-lit hallway with utility closets off to the side and a kitchen right before the back door that led to an alley way.

Ackerson reached out an arm and parted the door with one hand, reaching in his pocket with another to grab a cigarette. As they cleared the threshold to the night, John let out a ragged cough. As if James' cigarette brought back more memories. He coughed and coughed, until he was forced to spit out a green lump of thick mucus onto the cracked pavement just outside the door. It landed with an icky _thwack._

Ackerson took note as he lit up. "So you still got that nasty smoker's cough, eh?"

John didn't reply.

"Want one?" Ackerson said, extending his tin case to John.

John leaned forward and inspected the open case. It was lined with the finest leaves, John's old favorites, from Draco III...now gone. Just a cinder-world in the wake of the non-stop Covenant xenocide.

It was a tempting offer, to say the least. But the offer of a cigarette from Ackerson was more than just a friendly token of esteem from a long-lost colleague. It was a power play, however small it was. John taking that smoke signified cooperation. Maybe more.

John didn't want that. And he was no longer naive after so many years.

"Well...?" Ackerson beckoned.

"No thanks." John answered.

Ackerson's brow raised, involuntarily, it seemed. He was truly shocked. "You mean to tell me: that John Midas..._the_...John Midas, has given up nicotene? HA! You have changed, my friend."

John's ears perked up in disgust. Anyone could've noticed it, but the seldom-used alley way was devoid of any light save for a dirty bulb not too far away, its ancient glow omnipresent. It was probably a good thing that Ackerson hadn't noticed John's body language at this point, both their eyes still transitioning. He was most certainly not Ackerson's friend. In truth, John didn't even know why he was still here, why he even gave Ackerson the time of day. He should've brushed him off back at the bar. Was it curiosity? A friendly reminder of simpler, and possibly better days? Maybe.

"...People change." John mustered.

"I'll be damned. What else have I missed?"

"Not too much." John lied.

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be so hasty. I know times were rough back in ONI, but we were doing the right thing. Don't you agree? Look at us now: we're still here and still breathing, and we probably bought the inner colonies at least a decade's worth of time. Don't you forget that."

"I guess that's how some people see it." John crossed his arms.

"How some people _see _it? Don't you remember anything about--" Ackerson looked down each length of the alley way, stepped closer to John, and toned his voice down to a whisper. "--section zero?"

"I've tried to put it behind me, actually."

Ackerson scoffed. "Remember our motto? You _have _to remember _that_."

John lied again. "Vaguely."

"NO ONE MESSES WITH I-A. Do you remember that?"

"Okay. It's a little hazy in my mind, but it's all coming back now. Thanks."

"Remember all the rebel scum and our efforts against the Covenant? You can't say you don't remember, because then I know you're dodging."

"Half the ops we planned were cold-blooded to our own. And let's not forget what _started _the War. Besides, I'm onto bigger and better things, James."

"Bigger and better _things_? What's your deal, man? You pick and vanish without warning, without explanation. I'm left with trying to fill in your billet, not an easy task. And I can't even locate you in the UNSC database. Now, suddenly you turn up in the pits of Reach...and now you don't smoke? Look, I knew whatever reason it was that took you away from zero would be a damned good one, but shit! Let me know what's going on so I don't task a hundred agents to get you're twenty."

"Some would argue that you can do anything you want after passing the Yankee White."

Ackerson froze. His fingers lost control of his half-smoked ciagrette, content to let the finest and rarest tobacco fall to the vomit-stained ground. He took a hard look at John, with widened eyes and shortened breath. "You're a Yankee White?"

"About five years running, yes."

"You have changed more than I thought."

John chose to remain silent again. He kicked the ground and looked down one end of the dark alley, the antiquated incandescent bulb overhead saturating the alleyway in its yellow-orange fuzz.

Ackerson resumed, "Why leave section zero? We had our hands in the best ops."

"Yankee White has better."

"What kind of _better_?"

"The kind that if I told you, I'd have to kill you. Nothing personal."

"Hmm," Ackerson grunted. "Then I guess this is goodbye, eh? Old friend?"

"Eh, you never know. Maybe I'll run into you out there."

"Hopefully sooner than later. You were always my best. It's funny: even after all the years we shared in service, I always knew you'd leave us...somehow. God-damned Midas goes Yankee White. Who knew?"

Midas smiled, something he never thought he'd do in Ackerson's company. He checked the alley way once again. "I'd better get going. Duty calls. You know how it is."

Ackerson smiled, taking in John's long-lost visage for possibly the last time. "Here," he said, reaching into his pocket, "take my card."

John picked it from James' hand and shoved it deep into his jacket. "Thanks."

"Don't be a stranger. I know ONI had some rough spots in it, but all that's behind us, eh?"

"Roger."

Ackerson spun on a heel in the incandescent gloom of the night, and traced his way back into the bar.

John stood for one more moment, taking in the citrus-tinged evening. He thought about the old days and how simple they were. He thought about all the paths in life he might've taken, and how he'd gotten right here--to this very moment. Just like his induction into the Yankee White, everything was about to change all over again. He took a deep breath of air, and marched on.

And parked behind a dumspter at the far end, was a midnight blue sedan idling in wait, lights off. Seated inside was a man wearing an identical blue suit, watching the whole thing.

"Target is leaving the alley." he said into a radio. "I will keep you advised should anything change." He slid the shifter into _drive_ and krept behind John at an amicable distance.

And posted another ten stories up on the rooftop of a building adjacent to the alley, another figure in dark camouflage fatigues reported in on the situation as well. His findings were aided by a 10x sniper scope mounted on a tripod.

"Midas has left for rendezvous. We also have a hang-up: he's being tailed by an unknown. Advise on next course of action. Over."


	3. The Briefings

_**Three – The Briefings**_

By the early 21st century, Earth—in its entirety—was fully mapped and catalogued by way of precision orbital imagery. Centuries ago.

Everything about Earth was known, right down to the last square inch. There wasn't a place anyone could hide and not be found. What was once sensitive information to government and military organizations soon became common knowledge among the planet's populace. As time marched on and the UN's influence reigned supreme, there was no more earthen conflict and there was utterly no need to withhold such valuable and beneficial information from the public.

This was why a ghost op agent's job was so frustrating. Anyone, including his colleagues, could be watching right this minute. That's why Ackerson chose this exact spot for his meeting of utmost importance. He chose it every time, in fact.

But Aaron Dovellos had no idea why he was here. Why this place—of all places?

Never mind the details, Aaron probably thought. Work from the top down. See the big picture first. That's one hallmark he never forgot about his training. He brushed a casual hand against his right cargo pocket, making sure his recording device was concealed. Another trick he used: always cover your ass. If anyone should decide to double cross him, he'd have a bargaining chip. The use of force was better a last resort; better to use diplomacy 'till the end.

He had everything together as he approached his rendezvous, which he still couldn't get over. Why here?

His brand-new athletic shoes, bright and clean, were now tarnished with grass stains. He strode across a large field of fresh-cut grass, wet with the morning dew. He clenched his jaw as he glanced down at his feet.

Never mind. That was the least of his concerns.

Up ahead was a baseball stadium, little leagues by the likes of it. Rich orange-brown clay with freshly-marked white chalk, twin dugouts flanking the home base, and a batting cage of to the side—which was where he was headed.

Inside was his contact. Ackerson.

He was there inside the batting cage, an electric pitcher serving up fast ones down the line. Ackerson swung away.

He was in a uniform, complete with stirrups, a cup, and a cap—the whole ensemble. To anyone in the world, it would've looked like a coach getting some hits in before it was time to lead his team in a big game. Like a professional taking some swings for old time sake. And Ackerson certainly hit like one, controlled power in his fluid motion. His biceps and lat muscles rippled though his uniform.

The dawn had barely broken the horizon. It was the perfect time for a meeting in such a place. Half the town was still asleep this Sunday morning. Maybe there wasn't even a game today, but it didn't matter. No one in the entire galaxy would think to monitor this place. It was so overt, so conspicuous, and so vulnerable. It was the most unguarded place in the universe; the last place anyone would think to look. It was genius.

But Aaron didn't know the real surprise waiting in store as stepped within a stone's throw away from Ackerson.

A ball shot forward out of the machine with blurring speed. Ackerson swung on cue and rocked one into the net at the other end of the cage. Would've been a homer. "Wait right there," Ackerson said, not taking his eye off the pitching machine.

He slammed another zinger into the net, then let the bat drop to the ground. He switched off the machine with a remote and turned to face Dovellos.

Aaron gave him a nod.

Ackerson unhinged the metal door and let Aaron in. "Welcome aboard. I hope you don't mind," Ackerson said, holding up a "bug sniffer".

"Not at all."

Ackerson turned on the active transducer and waved it like a magic wand up and down and all around Aaron's body. A shrill chirp sounded at Aaron's right pocket and Ackerson gazed intently at it. "What's that?"

"You got me," Aaron said with a sly grin. He reached in and took it out, handed it to Ackerson with an outstretched palm.

Ackerson took a hold of it, let it fall to the ground and stomped it to pieces with his cleats. He then held up his bug sniffer. "Damn, you gotta love these things."

Aaron winced and said, "Right." He played the act, for he had a backup. The real eavesdropper was inside his car, back the way he came from. A highly-sensitive audio receiver pointed squarely at the two of them in the batting cage. It could pick up a whisper half a klick away. He was covered.

"What did you think this was," Ackerson said. "A get out of jail free card?"

Aaron stared back, confident he still had the upper hand. "Just covering my bases," he said with an even more sinister grin.

"Covering my bases. I like that. That's very good," Ackerson said pointing to the in-field. "Take a look, agent Dovellos. Take a good look around you. You'll notice you're inside a Faraday Cage of sorts, my own personal constructive efforts on display. The fence you now stand in is lined with a finely-woven brass mesh. Effectively, any electronic spying means nothing. All signals in and out of here are distorted. Did you even notice that the sound of my bat was particularly dampened on your way here?"

Aaron's heart sank where he stood. Though, he did his best not to show it.

"So, now that we've broken the ice, what's the status on Midas?"

"The status, sir, is he's on the move."

"Where to, specifically?"

"Here, there, everywhere."

"Dodging the predator," Ackerson said absentmindedly.

"Yes. He knows that someone is watching. He's been trained very well."

Ackerson studied Dovellos up and down. "I trust you're not having too hard a time…"

"_No_."

"I could always have you reassigned to a less strenuous task—"

"—Sir, I have this under control. What I think I'm trying to say is that a little more resources would be nice."

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear the first time. You don't need resources. You don't need provisions. You simply need to keep tabs on him. These damned Yankee Whites can do it. Why can't you?"

Aaron stiffened up, signifying understanding.

"Now," Ackerson continued. "What about this unknown?"

"I tried to get a tail on it, but I couldn't do it without losing Midas."

"Any theories?"

"Probably rebel spies who are interested in him just as much as us."

"This could be bad or good," Ackerson mumbled. "Finding out Midas' mission could have synergistic effects for us."

"Indeed," Aaron replied.

"So what's the latest?"

"He's holed up at Reach still. I have my best men on surveillance."

"Excellent. You know what to do if the situation changes."

"Yes sir."

**Somewhere on Reach…**

A man in a blue suit strode casually through a busy mall. Retail stores, food huts, fountains and tourists dotted the interior. A perfect place for a high security briefing. So dangerous, it was the last place any enemy would look. He wore conservative sunglasses, mostly to hide his identity should anyone in fact be watching.

His contact however, was not. He was sitting at a fountain's edge just up ahead, pretending to toss in some pennies with wishes attached to them. They met eyes and soon found themselves sitting next to one another.

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing much so far."

"Is he—?"

"—A Yankee White? Yes."

"You weren't made?"

"No. I'm certain of it. The sedan you gave me blended in quite nicely here."

"Good…good. So what is a Yankee White, exactly?"

"The Yankee White Academy was created in secret. No one really knows exactly what date the program was created, but most believe it was conceived around the year 2535, when most of the outer colonies fell and the Covenant found the inner colonies. Common sense told the powers that be that it wouldn't take long before they neared Earth. The Yankee White is probably their best shot at toppling the Covenant infastructure before its too late. They created this 'society' of sorts for one thing: to deal the death blow to the Covenant. To kill them in one, swift stroke from within."

The man asked, "How many people make up the program?"

"Our agent on the inside tells us that very few people know just how many belong. He suspects that even some its own personnel don't even know. Compartmentalized access. You know how it is."

"Right. And how many people know of its existence?"

"_Very _few. The President of the UN, of course, and certain UEG personnel and various top-ranking military officials."

"So secret a program, yet so many people in the know."

"Yes...but the program itself is a UEG-mandated function in its entirety. Only the President can issue orders. The suboordinates far and wide simply carry out and direct orders from the top. The very top."

"Interesting. So where is he now?"

"Still here, still idling. My guess is he's awaiting orders."

"This long?"

"They don't communicate with one another the same way normal people do. They probably don't use radio or electronic messaging. They probably communicate in sifted code."

"Sifted code? You mean like mass-media ciphers?"

"Yes. Tabloid, newspaper, even newscast."

"God damn. I never thought that actually worked. Effectively, I mean."

"Yeah, it's _that_ deep."

"There really is now way to ever find out how they operate, eh?"

"I wouldn't even take that bet."

"Well, good job, Banga. You have certainly proved your mettle here. Keep up the good work and I'll make you governor of this rock."

"Sounds good. I'd better get back to work now. My men are probably bored of all this stakeout duty."

Brad Banga got up from the fountain and strode back the way he came, blending into the crowd in his midnight blue suit.

And two floors up on the balcony, another man in plain clothes watched the whole meeting. He left his post and followed Banga through the densely-packed mall.


End file.
